This series of photographs was taken in Blackpool, Cleveleys and Bispham on the Fylde coast of Lancashire, in north-west England, over the course of one day in July 2024. It was at the start of what turned out to be a wet, gloomy and disappointing summer: the season had not yet begun, children were still in school, and it was the middle of the week. But, surely, I thought, it's Blackpool, and there is always something going on. I was hoping for a day spent wandering with camera in hand among holidaymakers and daytrippers, young families and pensioners, gamblers, drinkers, perma-tanned wags and their inamoratos, and all the furiously happy and cheerfully miserable people who seem to gravitate towards down-at-heel seaside towns, and Blackpool in particular.
Huge numbers of tourists visit Blackpool every year, and have done so since the town rose to eminence as a working-class resort in the second half of the 19th century. Blackpool became a favourite destination for holidaymakers from the industrial north of England and lowland Scotland, and by the 1920s and 1930s had become Britain's most popular resort. It remained popular through much of the 20th century, with millions of visitors attracted annually by its sands and piers, miles of promenade, bawdy humour, famous Illuminations and, of course, iconic Tower.
Few of these millions were about when I arrived. I had taken a train down the south Fylde line to Blackpool Pleasure Beach railway station, where I intended to walk around the outside of the amusement park. Once open for the public to walk through, its perimeter is now sealed, and admittance is only by day ticket. Although a few dozen thrill-seekers got off at the station with me, the whole area seemed curiously deserted. I soon began my walk along the promenade, starting from the South Shore at the bottom of the Golden Mile. Here, bar the occasional passenger waiting for a tram and a few passers-by, there also seemed to be very little activity. As I made my way north towards the town centre, Blackpool Tower constantly in sight, the walk seemed to get longer and longer.
Visiting Blackpool's three piers in turn, I found the police in attendance at the North Pier. A young-ish man in his 20s or 30s was on the 'wrong' side of the railings shouting and screaming. While the atmosphere was tense, it didn't seem to be thought he had any real intention of jumping off. He was presumably just at his last straw with the iniquity of the mental health system, or the petty vindictiveness of the benefits system, or something similar. He'd come back to the 'right' side once I'd been to the end of the pier and back. Following a tram ride to Cleveleys and a walk along the front from Bispham back to the North Pier, it was time to head back.
I had set out that morning hoping to find what Joel Meyerowitz memorably describes as the 'jazzy riff of life on the street', and as I caught the train home that evening, I didn't think my photography expedition had been a particular success. But on reviewing the pictures, with their wide open spaces and often-distant figures, I felt I had caught something of the dank spirit of a pre-season holiday town on an unpromising day in the middle of the week. While I had gone hoping for the jazzy noise, colour and exuberance of summer life on seaside streets, what I had found was something more sombre and ruminative, but candid, nonetheless
